Times Gone By by
Chris Dee

Tim and Stephanie were not prone to the
angst-ridden tribulations of the older couples.
It was New Year’s Eve and their conversation was devoted to the most
famous song no one knows the words too: Auld Lang Syne.

Robin had won the toss and he and Spoiler
were stationed in a prime position overlooking Gotham Plaza, while the
others patrolled less interesting parts of the city.

At 12:01, Robin indulged in the common
dating maneuver of quoting famous movies. In particular, Billy Crystal,
When Harry Met Sally, 1989: “What does this song mean? My whole life, I
don’t know what this song means…”

It would have brought at least a chuckle
from any girl in Gotham—except Stephanie Brown, whose father was the
Cluemaster and whose mother was a teacher of English Literature and of
Scottish descent. Her
parents’ disparate interests in obscure trivia, Celtic pride, and a fierce
admiration of the poet Burns meant that Steph was able to provide from
memory the original 18th Century transcription and a modern
translation of all four verses of the classic song.

“It means Times Gone By.”

“Isn’t that Casablanca?”

Robin asked.

“That’s AS Time GOES
By.”

“Oh.
Well anyway…”

“We sing:
‘Take a cup of kindness yet for times gone by.’”

“Most people I know sing
♫-dum-dum-de-dum-dum-DUM-dedum, FOR
AU-ULD LAND SYNE-♫.”

“Then the next verse, the friends take
hands and drink ‘a right guid-willie waught.’”

“Mm.
Very interesting. So anyway…”

“…which’d be a drink.
My Mum’d say that’s a mite more important in the highlands than a
cup’o’kindness.”

“Got it,
‘a right guid-willie waught.’ So ANYWAY—looks like the crowd’s
thinning out down there.”

“ ♫-But seas between us braid hae roar’d,
Sin auld lang syne… ♫”

“We’re singing now?
Steph, I was just making a joke.”

“Means ♫-Seas between us, broad, have roared, since Times Gone By-♫…”

The world of the Batman was complicated with a
variety of wildly-clad, hyperactive characters with sinister intentions.
Alfred’s world was not and he planned to keep it that way.

He was happy—no man more so—that Dick
and Barbara had at last taken the great step of becoming engaged.
But that did not call for the introduction into their lives of a
wildly-clad, hyperactive character with sinister intentions. That did not call
for the introduction of Mr. Corry.

Mr. Corry was a wedding planner.
A Wedding Planner. A
dark foreboding shuddered through his system at the mere thought of the words.
Dear Miss Gordon, she was an outsider in the world of old Gotham
society. She didn’t know yet, poor thing.
Things like that were not done, not at this level.

Dick might be a Flying Grayson, the former Robin,
and Nightwing the scourge of Bludhaven, but he was also the son of Bruce
Wayne… of the East Egg Waynes… Thomas’s boy, and Martha’s, who was a Van
Giesen and a cousin to the Bassets.

There were forms to be observed.
It was that simple.

Alfred expected resistance on this point from
the younger generations that didn’t think such things mattered.
He expected it from Barbara; he expected it from Dick, and he expected it
from Bruce—Bruce who thought nothing of disgracing his family name,
appearing as a fop and a rake at the slightest provocation.

Well, Alfred got the expected resistance from
Barbara. And from Dick, although that
didn’t count. For as the boy was
soon to discover, the groom’s opinion on any subject from the dress to the
seating arrangements ranks right up there with that of the family dog.

But Alfred was pleased to find an unexpected
ally in Bruce. Bruce wanted to make
a fuss. He hadn’t been much of a
father to Dick, especially since the boy had grown up.
No support for his transition from Robin to Nightwing, no show of pride
for his leadership of the Titans. It
was time to make amends, and this was how he would do it: a big announcement,
a big party, a big splash—something to make the papers and set the social
world on its ear. Dick was his son, and Bruce Wayne was going to say so in as grand and
public a manner as possible. So
there.

The more Alfred hovered around the murmured
conversations about flowers, music and color schemes, the more encouraging
glances he perceived from Bruce. When Alfred ventured to cough at a particularly objectionable
suggestion, he perceived a nod from his employer.
When he actually suggested to Barbara that he be allowed to make some
calls of inquiry, he saw an out and out smile from Bruce.
By New Year’s Day, the name of Mr. Corry was heard no more at Wayne Manor,
and Alfred was firmly in command of the Gordon-Grayson nuptials.

No one involved in this glittering but
unremarkable story so far could realize that Talia Head, a.k.a. Talia Al Ghul,
daughter of Ra’s Al Ghul The Demon’s Head, had long ago put feelers in place to
notify her if someone at Wayne Manor ever made the inquiries Alfred was now
making about diamond solitaires, tiered cakes, engraved invitations,
photographers, flowers, musicians, caterers, and couturiers…

January 2nd, A-minus 19

Dick sorted through an unusually thick stack of
mail. He’d spent days at a time in Gotham before…
bill, bill, bill
…just not recently. There must
have been this much mail waiting for him in the past…
flyer, bill, 500 free hours of AOL, Christmas card from “Aunt Kate” (do I
have an Aunt Kate?)…he just didn’t remember it that way since he’d been confining himself to the
family dinner/patrol, one-night-only visits.

The drive back to Bludhaven was quiet time, time alone in his head, the first chance he’d had to really think since
popping the question. It didn’t
happen the way he’d planned it. It wasn’t a story they could tell their friends; they’d
have to fabricate something suitably romantic later.
More lies. There was no
aspect of their lives that wasn’t tied up in lies and cover stories.
Sometimes it bothered him. But
at least it was done. He and Barbara were engaged to be married.

Dick wasn’t aware that he’d had
‘expectations’ until they weren’t met. It took so much to work himself up to that proposal. It
was the first time letting go of the trapeze, the
first time putting on the mask as Robin, first time having sex, nothing was
supposed to be the same after that. But
he was the same. Barbara was the same. It was kind of surprising.
They had lots more to talk about now. Stupid as it sounded, he hadn’t
fully realized to get to married you have to go through the wedding.
(And he sure didn’t realize what the wedding entailed.) Yes,
they had a lot to talk about now, but they were still Dick and Barbara, and the
way they were together hadn’t really changed.

1000 hours of AOL plus free digital
camera!…

…
and a slip of blue paper:“Dick, Not alone this week are you?
Come
have a slice of plum pudding at your neighbor’s.
Clancy”

Oh dear.

And another one: “Guess you had plans. Merry
Christmas Dick. Clancy”

Then a coupon book, a W2, and another sheet of
blue. This one smelled faintly of
red wine: “I get it you’re in Gothham. Give
‘em all my best best– well you can’t do that because you’ll be back when
you read this. Clanc”

and finally:“If you’re back, come have a glass of champagne with your neighbor.
Happy New Year. Clancy.”

Oh hell.

It
was a flirtation—a harmless flirtation. She was his landlady, she happened
to live next door, she was about his age—but it didn’t mean
anything. It was just fun. Why do people have to assume any contact between an unattached
male and female is some big romantic thing?
Hell-o-hell-o-hell… People do get sentimental on the holidays though,
don’t they? And lonely.
Oh man. He had to fix
this…

January 3rd, A-minus 18

“Here it comes,” Selina whispered, “the death rattle.”

On the stage far below, the vengeful princess
Amneris, third side of the most powerful love triangle in opera, pleaded (in
Verdi’s most intense writing for a mezzo-soprano) with the Egyptian priests to
spare her lover Radames, whose fate she had already sealed in a fit of jealousy
over his love for Aida.

“Selina’s Operatic Rule #4: whoever make a
noise like that will not be getting the guy in the end.”

Bruce smiled. It was the last act, and the
couple had relocated at intermission.
He noted with amusement that, while Selina understood opera well and was
clearly enjoying it very much, she did not approach it with the reverence of a
typical opera fan. She would
whisper only occasional comments in the theatre, but here on the roof she was
free to let herself go.

Here on the roof… It wasn’t so very long
ago that he met her here as Batman.

It was a crazy risk to take, unlike him—inviting her like that.

You always get to pick the time and place.
That’s patently unfair.
9PM. Roof of the opera house.
I’ll be there if you will, unless a real crime
intervenes.

Inviting her to meet in costume but off the
clock, so to speak. No crime for
either of them to hide behind. How did he ever manage to do it?
How did he ever pull himself out of the quagmire of guilt, denial and
self-righteous posturing he’d worked himself into?

That was how.
Her show—where she’d said it out loud:
they wanted each other. She said it out loud, and the universe
didn’t collapse on itself. Then
that strange epilogue at the museum. He
said it. Well not exactly, but he’d said “This isn’t a burglary, it’s
a date.” He alluded openly to the fact that he was a man and she was a
woman and there was something between them that had nothing to do with bats,
cats, or crime. And again the
universe didn’t implode. He
smiled at her that night—and the gaping void of nothingness didn’t rise
like a great anti-matter serpent and swallow the cosmos whole.

That was all it took:
that little pin-prick. That
led to the note, which led to this very roof, which led to all the rest.

“She has the audacity to act disappointed
now,” Selina was narrating again.

The defeated Amneris mourned over the sealed tomb in which Radames was buried
alive and where his true love, Aida, had hidden herself in order to die with
him.

“Remind you of any jealous deranged
hypocrites you know?” she added, but that wasn’t why Bruce grimaced.
He was remembering this duet from that night—“Nice choice of
music for a first date, stud.”

It sure was: Rigoletto, Traviata, Aida,
La Forza del Destino, Un Ballo in Maschera. All the loves sung of that
night ended badly. What a
spectacularly bad omen for a first date. Well not exactly a date, and not exactly
their first—but still.

January 6th, A-minus 15

Dick’s hands shook. Nightwing!
Black Belt! Acrobat since
age 4! Trapeze artist since age 6! And
his hands shook trying to dial the freaking phone.
He had to talk to Barbara—or maybe Bruce first.
Get some advice from the more experienced thoughtless playboy asinine
womanizer shithead—he had to fucking fix this.

“Your decorator called.”

After leaving those four heart-breaking notes over the holidays, that was
Clancy’s sole comment when she saw him again.
Not the slightest reference to plum pudding, Gotham, or New Year’s Eve.
“Your decorator called.”